


The Manager

by WikiBeck



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Horror, Psychological Horror, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21708904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WikiBeck/pseuds/WikiBeck
Summary: Special thanks to Myrmidonee who proof read this trash
Kudos: 1





	The Manager

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Myrmidonee who proof read this trash

** Friday Morning – 5:05 **

When he arrived at work, Chris realised his mistake, forgetting his earplugs at home. The club where he worked supplied them as standard employee issue. His ears were buzzing from the heavy bass by the time he left. The walk home was soothing, as only dawn touched walks through a sleeping city can be, but it did little to halt the rapidly mounting headache.

Hard neon lights flickered and whined to life in Chris’ bathroom. His post-work routine was so ingrained that it took only thirteen minutes to get himself undressed, into bed and asleep.

** Friday Afternoon – 1:32 **

Light from the midday Sun woke him, glowing orange through his still closed eyelids. The ringing had not subsided overnight, if anything it had gotten worse. Tinnitus was something he had heard of from his fellow bouncers but he never thought he would experience for himself. Berating himself for forgetting the earplugs he left his bed. He did not realise it would be the last time he would use it. The headache was already setting in. The noise seemed endless. He just needed a paracetamol or two, chase it down with a little whiskey, just to take the edge off.

Halfway into his first lecture he felt the drugs kick in, the noise started to dull and fade. Short lived relief flooded him; he was cured. For now at least, he could focus on Michelangelo in peace.

The peace was short lived. Back in his apartment the ringing is back full force. Worse. And worse. And worse. Pushing the discomfort aside he attempts to satisfy the spark that had suddenly lit within him. Only his easel can be set up. He loses the inspiration. He ends up in the kitchen, bottle in hand.

** Friday Night – 10:31 **

This time Chris’ earplugs were jammed into his ears before he left for work. This did nothing to stop the ringing that was already there. It dulled all other sounds. He couldn’t not focus on the only noise that was left. It was too early to leave so he was irritably pacing the flat. It did not take long for him to relent and crack a beer. And another. He slid a hip flask in his inside pocket. The night rang torturously for him and he stole from his hip flask at any opportunity. It was not enough.

** Saturday Morning – 3:28 **

With the club due to close in just over half an hour, a rowdy group of young lads (around uni age) tried to enter but he denied them. An argument ensued, the tension rising quickly as Chris could not hear them. The ringing in his ears was too loud. He was not going to risk removing the plugs tonight, not even for a second. Their slurred voices were not helping matters for either party. Another bouncer, Cyrus, had to step in and resolve the situation. Chris had come to expect the younger students to be drunker and ruder than mature students like himself. Although, the age difference between them was only a few years. He was pleasantly surprised when they slid off without further resistance. As the night ended, a slow bubbling anger grew towards Typhon. Typhon was the company that owned this club chain. How dare they damage his hearing!

He kept his earplugs in even as he walked home, to protect his hearing as much as possible. Chris did not realise that a group was closing on him. The group from before, but there were more of them. They seemed to come from all sides. Once captured, Chris stood no chance. They beat him, merciless punches morphing into something far more animalistic. Clawing and biting at him, the group began to take on almost hydra-like qualities. For every one he managed to drive off, there was always another. Adrenaline was making the white noise almost unbearable. He gave up, took the beating and waited for it to end.

The Sun was rising by the time Chris flopped down onto his sofa. The exhaustion was overwhelming now. He was utterly spent. He was drowning in it. There was not even a drink before sleep, something which had been slowly becoming normal since he left his parent’s house.

** Saturday Afternoon – 6:35 **

Sleep ran its course within him and the backdrop to his awakening was ringing, a sore body and a slow beautiful purple sunset. He had slept the day away and night loomed - sinister already. His muscles burned as he rolled off the chair to get himself the flat beer from the other night. Having drunk it, he felt sufficiently numb. Numbed enough to drag himself to the bathroom. The bruises reminded him of last night’s defeat. It made more sense now; the ringing was from his boxed ears and the soreness from the bruises. He could see some blossoming across his face and could feel the rest whenever he moved. They were not normal bruises, some were ringed red and cut. It looked like someone had used a knuckle duster. The more frightening supernatural aspects of the night seem to have vanished from his memory altogether. Repeating to his reflection that it was just a bad fight he started to clean his wounds, dabbing himself with a flannel. He looked as though he had been mauled by an animal. Even after cleaning himself up the buzzing continued.

Guilt masqueraded as remorse on the phone call he made to his manager. He couldn’t come in. Stomach bug. The typically flexible man was stretched fairly taut recently. Saturday was their busiest night and one of his employees had phoned in with only a couple of hours’ notice. The tension in his voice was audible even over the ringing and Chris could almost imagine the disapproving look.

** Saturday Night – 7:22 **

Within the hour Chris was already making preparations to go to work. The lying was wearing down on him. If he went to work and paid off this guilt maybe he would stop feeling it, The Manager, watching him lying on his sofa, sans stomach bug. He could never actually see him, but the hairs on his arms were raising, the way they do when something is staring you down, just beyond your peripheral vision.

Already dressed to go and sufficiently drunk, Chris caught himself in the mirror. The bruises seemed to be taking root in his face, black tendrils growing across his face, the same seemingly all over his body. Soon it would cover him completely! Work forgotten, panic took him and he scrubbed at his face with everything he had. He stopped himself. The skin was red and bleeding in some places but the blackened tendrils were no less visible. If anything the raw skin was throwing them into fine relief. Work would be impossible; he looked like a madman! His intentions turned to whiskey.

The sight of his easel, still set up, on the way to the alcohol gave him pause. He could have sworn he had seen something, just in the periphery. Scolding himself for his paranoia, he made himself a drink.

Hours later Chris was producing a piece in a drunken frenzy. All his previous attempts at art, all previous inspiration were sparks compared to the wildfire that was currently consuming him. Sometimes the wind blew this way and sometimes that, but it only stoked his rage and fear. He felt drunk on manic power.

** Sunday Morning – 10:53 **

Like a wildfire the aggressive idea consuming everthing. The flames only stopped when they had burnt everything inside. As soon as the last of the heat was gone he flopped back onto his chair, utterly devoid. His bruised skin was raised and red from the compulsive scratching. The tinnitus was almost unbearable. His body was drained. He barely managed to contemplate what he had created before he fell into sleep.

It was a portrait of The Manager. A self-portrait. Something unholy and unnatural had happened that night. It was painted so The Manager appeared to move, undulating like a snake. Surely Chris could not have painted such a thing with no knowledge of optical illusions.

** Sunday Afternoon – 2:00 **

The clock showed midday but the sky was that sunset purple again. It looked more ethereal and abstract than ever, as though marbled, even though the Sun is at its peak. He must have been more drunk than he remembered last night, The Manager was static in his picture. Not at all like Chris recalled. Something dark was creeping into the very edges of his thoughts. Had he really painted The Manager in that position? A drink or two would surely help him recover the memory or at least recreate the state he was in when it was made.

A few drinks in and the picture began to look like the jovial manager Chris had at the club. The Manager must have slipped away somewhere. That possibility was chilling. His nerves began to fray and he scratched at himself. The desperate scraping all he can hear, aside from the ringing. He hoped it would soon reach the crescendo. How much louder could it possibly get? There was another noise as well, subtle as the physical form of The Manager, the sound he makes. The rustle of scales scraping along the floor. It drew closer, but not along a direct path. As though The Manager were playing with his prey. Fear shut Chris in a kitchen cupboard, where he was blind to the world. He could still hear it though, The Manager, got closer. And closer. And closer. Until he was right outside. Had The Manager been corporeal he would not have been able to seep into that cupboard. Slide in like a snake. Surround him. Tighter and tighter. Chris stopped being able to breathe and started to convulse, he tumbled from the cupboard to seize on the floor. He woke from the fit very confused, unsure why he was on his floor.

Piece by piece it came back to him.

** Sunday Night – 7:36 **

The bathroom, with the white tile and harsh bright light, felt safer than the other parts of the house. They were lit more softly, and in softly lit rooms shadows might dance. Naked on the floor curled around a bottle of whiskey, Chris scratched himself compulsively. Red scaly plaques were forming all over and being torn apart by his repetitive motions. The ringing drowns out all else now, so he can’t even hear The Manager approach. In rare moments of lucidity, Chris hauls himself up, using the sink, so he can keep an eye out for The Manager in the mirror. There is no sign. None.

** Monday Morning – 5:05 **

Morning’s first light touched on a black scaly creature obsessively clawing at itself. Chris was burning with the need to scratch and his skin was starting to loosen. The scales sloughed off leaving tender pink skin behind. This new skin was soft and Chris felt defenceless, but the need to scratch was gone, his shed skin lay beside him, hideous and dry, the cracking pus of wounds hardening on the surface. He was too weak to move away from it, hadn’t eaten in days. The Manager made his move. Pressure forced at Chris’ eyes. The Manager! Trying to force entry. Forcing his fingers far back into his eye sockets, Chris ripped his eyes, lids and all from his head. They dangled by the optic nerve for an instant before a quick jerk tore them completely from Chris’ head. He dropped them. Not so easily defeated The Manager next attempted for the ears and, although he savaged near half his head, Chris could not prevent him from slipping into his mind as easily as he had slipped from the painting.

There is a short war for Chris’ mind, punctuated by the language of The Manager, the shriek of tinnitus, constantly babbling away. One by one his processes, his memories and finally his functions were stolen from him.

The Manager takes control.

** Thursday Afternoon – 3:20 **

A student has not turned up to university, nor an employee to work, for days. The police are alerted and enter the flat. Even Robbie Calor, the forensic scientist, most experienced among them, was not ready for the sight. The young man’s head looks almost like it has exploded and judging by the amount of maggots he had been like this for days. The eyes and ears were in a pile next to a bottle of whiskey that even in death he was clutching. There was nothing unusual about the scene, aside from the horrific method the young man had chosen to commit suicide. Obvious self mutilation and obviously under the influence of alcohol. It was an open closed case, no one else seemed involved.

** Thursday Night – 5:46 **

When Robbie got home his wife cheerily greeted him. He grunted in response. He hadn’t had a headache like this ever before. It’s so bad it almost feels like his ears are ringing.


End file.
